


Lay You on the Throne

by Dancains



Category: Glee
Genre: 80's Music, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Set during the season 2 prom, The post-prom scene we deserved!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Dave wished he could melt into the wall behind him, to simply phase out of sight or even out of existence altogether. He felt a sharp pang of guilt as he realized this was probably exactly how Kurt felt once upon a time, whenever he spotted Dave walking down the hall.He opened his eyes—speak of the devil. Kurt Hummel had just come around the corner, flouncy little kilt and all. The plastic tiara on his head gleamed strangely under the yellowing fluorescents but somehow looked right on him, as if he walked around in a party store tiara every day of his goddamn life.
Relationships: Kurt Hummel/David Karofsky
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	Lay You on the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm rewatching/watching Glee in 2020 and Kurtofsky is literally the only pairing I care about from it. I have zero shame. This is a one-shot but I could see it pooooossibly having a sequel or two. Also, I'm working on a more elaborate "10 years Later" AU because I love how that seems to be a trope for this pairing/fandom and there are so many delicious possibilities. Anyhow, enjoy!

Just as Dave felt like he’d finally gotten his breathing back under control, a new wave of panic swept over him when he heard one of the doors from the gymnasium swing open and a series of measured footsteps echo off of the school’s dirty linoleum floor. Somehow, he narrowed in on the sound, the music still playing for the prom-goers melting into senseless white noise.

It had all been too much—that was an understatement if there ever was one. 

He had no idea where he was going when he pushed his way through the crowd, only knowing he had to leave. All the classrooms and locker rooms were undoubtedly locked, and he wasn’t in any state to drive home yet. There was even some small irrational voice in the back of his head that wondered if he might be ambushed if he stepped out into the dark of WMHS’s parking lot, by some of the hockey guys or some other assholes who somehow thought all of this was intentional.

Instead, he had sequestered himself in one of the hall’s little alcoves that had a drinking fountain, around the corner from the gym, praying his heart wouldn’t beat right out of his chest. 

Dave was pretty sure he was having a fucking panic attack.

A cacophony of hurried, anxious thoughts resounded in his mind. _They knew. They knew. They looked at him and Kurt and they all somehow knew. They knew he was—_

What was it that his therapist, the one that his dad had arranged for him to see since Kurt first came forward about the bullying all those months ago, told him to do to calm down when he thought he was getting overly angry again? Surely that would help him now, even though he was now far more overwhelmed by fear than any other emotion.

He breathed in gradually, counting slowly to five, then counting again on the long, shaky exhale. He still felt like shit, but doing it a few times at least helped to clear his head. Mentally, he tried to visualize himself somewhere else, in a calm, safe space. A hazy, sun-soaked memory of his grandmother’s house in the summers of his childhood appeared behind his eyes.

On the fifth exhale, the approaching steps seemed almost in sync with each silent counted beat. 

Dave wished he could melt into the wall behind him, to simply phase out of sight or even out of existence altogether. He felt a sharp pang of guilt as he realized this was probably exactly how Kurt felt once upon a time, whenever he spotted Dave walking down the hall.

He opened his eyes—speak of the devil. Kurt Hummel had just come around the corner, flouncy little kilt and all. The plastic tiara on his head gleamed strangely under the yellowing fluorescents but somehow looked right on him, as if he walked around in a party store tiara every day of his goddamn life.

Dave couldn't help but make some sort of pathetic sound in the back of a throat, almost like a whimper.

Kurt looked as if he had come all the way out here in a rush but had no idea what he actually intended to say. “I wanted to see if you were alright,” he ventured softly, after a long tense moment.

“Look I didn’t— I didn’t have anything to do with the voting—”

“That’s not—” Kurt’s face screwed up in a way that Dave would have found unbearably cute at any other time. “I didn’t think that at all.” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “I shouldn't have asked that from you back there. It was wrong. I was...I was angry. What they did was cruel, and I wanted to make some sort of statement to fight back, but...but I shouldn’t have tried to make you do it for me. It wasn’t the time for that or my call to make. And I’m sorry, Dave.”

Dave let out a slow shaky exhale.

“It’s okay. I understand.” Having Kurt apologize to him was probably the most surreal thing Dave had ever experienced.

Kurt didn’t look like he believed him. He pressed his lips into a thin line for a moment before asking, “Are _you_ okay, though? Have you been crying?”

“No,” Dave answered automatically, nearly slipping back behind his usual mask of jockish bravado. He rubbed his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding his own cheap crown, realizing they were puffy and just slightly wet.

As his gaze dropped to the floor in embarrassment, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander back up Kurt’s figure. Damn, he had nice calves. Even if only a few inches of skin were visible between the top of his socks and the bottom hem of the kilt, it was more than Dave had seen before. The top half of his ensemble fitted perfectly, and while slightly antiquated looking, was almost regal in its own way.

Kurt looked really handsome— _beautiful_ even. But there was no way Dave could tell him that.

In the distance, Abba’s _Dancing Queen_ faded out, only to be replaced by a marginally slower but equally recognizable song.

Kurt had come out here to check on him, and that had to mean _something_ right? Even if it was just the beginning of some kind of almost-friendship. Dave put the crown back on his head.

“Y-you still owe me a dance you know.”

“What?” Kurt blinked.

Dave answered carefully, hoping he could brush it off as a joke if worse came to worst.“Well, I’m prom king and you’re — What I mean is, we are the prom kings, whether we like it or not.”

Dave put out his hand. He thought he saw a gleam of something new and warm in Kurt’s eyes, but there was still a second of hesitation.”

“I’m sorry, Kurt, of course you don’t have to—”

“No!” Kurt’s voice was even higher than usual, and Dave cringed internally at how it made him feel all warm in the pit of his stomach. “I was just surprised.”

Dave stepped forward into the hallway, where Kurt met him halfway. Dave only had a second to think about how soft Kurt’s hand was before it struck him how close they were. The two of them probably hadn’t been this physically near to each other since...

Kurt’s hand was in his, and his other hand came to rest lightly on Dave’s bicep. Trying desperately to remember where to put his hands, even though he had been slow dancing with Santana less than an hour ago, Dave put his own free hand on Kurt’s side, not quite as low as his hip. Their chests weren’t touching, but it was a near thing.

_“She'll expose you, when she snows you_  
_Off your feet with the crumbs, she throws you_  
_She's ferocious and she knows just what it_  
_Takes to make a pro blush_  
_All the boys think she's a spy, she's got Bette Davis eyes…”_

Dave wasn’t sure which one of the glee kids were singing it, and he really didn’t care. He watched Kurt’s lips idly mouth the words, somehow knowing that if he looked the Kurt in the eye he might just become mesmerized.

What frightened him was how solid and real and unyielding Kurt felt under his fingers. How dangerously close this came to fulfilling everything Dave had been ashamed to dream about. He decided to just focus on how lucky he was now. He knew the real deal would never be possible— it didn’t even live in the same realm as possible. Besides, even if it weren’t for the checkered history between them, Kurt had a boyfriend, and on that fateful day Dave had kissed him, Kurt had made it abundantly clear that Dave was anything except his “type.”

But Kurt was kind. He let him have this for a few moments now, far more than Dave deserved. 

_“She's got Bette Davis eyes…”_

God, thought Dave, he really did have eyes like those actresses in the old black and white movies he used to watch with his mom, with a gaze like pure electricity that could only pull you in.

He gave Kurt’s hand a squeeze, mustering a shy smile. To his surprise, Kurt laid his cheek on Dave’s shoulder as they swayed slower than the music should have allowed.

Dave’s breath caught in his throat. He could smell Kurt’s shampoo, or cologne or aftershave or whatever it was—spicy and sweet at the same time, like cinnamon and citrus. He had a feeling he'd smell it again in his dreams that night.

The song came to an end. They carefully disentangled from each other.

“I should probably go," said Kurt. “My friends and my—”

“Yeah, I should go too,” Dave answered all too quickly. “And Kurt...thank you.” He didn’t elaborate on what for.

“Goodnight, Dave.” Kurt smiled at him, if only for a few blissful seconds, before leaving. Something about it had looked bittersweet. 

Dave made his way out of the school and into his truck without incident, choosing not to turn the radio on as he drove home. He wanted the music from his and Kurt’s dance to stay in his head as long as it could.

“Hey, Champ, you’re home earlier than expected,” his dad called out from the family room as Dave tried to ascend the stairs unseen.

His dad looked comfortable on the couch, with a paperback and what might have been tea in a mug on the coffee table.

Dave hung back in the doorway. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

Paul Karofsky smiled. “I had to know if you won—but I think I got my answer, that is unless you stopped to buy yourself on a crown on the way home.”

Oh. Right. “Yeah, we won.” Dave did his best to try and muster some enthusiasm. He figured it was best if his father didn't know how things really panned out. “Santana wasn’t feeling well after, though,” he added in further explanation, remembering he had told his parents he had expected to be back much later, after going to an after-party at one of the other football players houses, “so she got a ride home with one of her girlfriends. I think some punk might have spiked the punch bowl with something pretty strong.” Saying it aloud, he knew it was a lame excuse.

His dad chuckled, “Well someone always did when I was in school. I guess kids will be kids.”

Dave nodded awkwardly, wondering when he’d get a chance to slip up to his room, crawl under the covers and stay there for the forseeable future. 

“Your mother went to sleep already, but she’ll be so happy when you tell her tomorrow,” his dad continued. He set down his book. “And I think I’m ready to go to bed too.” 

He crossed the room and enveloped his son in a tight bear hug. “Congratulations, David. I'm really proud.”

Dave held his father tightly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hollow as it felt, “Thanks, Dad.”


End file.
